


Hypodermic

by IntravenousDollhouse



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Chubstuck, Gore, Horror, M/M, Needles, Weight-gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 14:25:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntravenousDollhouse/pseuds/IntravenousDollhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Dave are stranded in the perverse, hidden subterranean of a mystery-planet.  Though the keys to survival are freely given, this world is not without risk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hypodermic

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Trigger-warning, extreme weight-gain (descriptive), gore, mild sex (implied touching).
> 
> If these concepts are not your cup of tea, turn back now!

The shift of slender, cruel steel against throbbing flesh is yours to experience. Cotton candy smoke dances about your horizontal and shuddering frame even as you detect its calming allure. A sweet scintillation. Each breath is drenched in syrup and pulls at the fibers of your throat; tempting your reflexes. You’re sick. 

A canopy of syringes flaunting vivid, effervescent fluids dangles precariously from the violet vaulting. Each needle sparkles behind your eyelids, leaving slick imprints of dextrose film. In actuality, though you’re barely able to view the room in entirety, most of the space you see is glazed in a similar paste. 

“Hah...” 

You sigh. The sound rattles through your chest wetly; like a loose trinket inside a snow-globe. Imagination spits embers of a dreadful, visceral illness in your mind. The sparks burn agitated landscapes of bacteria down your throat.

Latex sticks to your forehead as a soothing hand is placed there. The person bent over your aching body is clad in sterilized rubber from yellow-soled boots to ventilation mask. Not one slice of skin is shown. 

A panicked susurration of briery pain oozes down the back of your skull, culminating in an inflamed tangle of nerves. It’s the worst migraine you’ve endured. 

The wand of surgical steel returns. At its head, a spiteful blade glimmers. Strength leaks out your neck at a hopeless pace, forcing you into a state of relaxation. Your face is turned to the wall, which drips with a thick, pink oil. If you could touch it, your fingers would sizzle. 

Blood spatters the corners of your lips and becomes a milky, roseate froth when mixed with a drizzle of hapless saliva. The latex specter grabs a cloth -- you can barely see it through peripheral vision -- and presses it to convulsing flesh. When their hand is drawn back, still clutching the rag, you see it drip with thick spools of greasy blood. It’s discarded. 

Jellied, blackened clots bubble from your gut as a hand burrows through fat, muscle, and intestine. The anesthesia steadily dissipates; your quiet, humming nerves are a malefic chime. You’re screaming, even before the creature’s humanoid teeth crush a slippery chunk of bowel. A cauterization laser bores through the anterior side of its smooth head. Its burning death smells like rotten fruit, and for one surreal moment you’re at home, in the kitchen. Organic compounds never lasted long in the apartment.

The still-twitching monster is removed from your gaping abdomen. 

“Kill me too.”

Hands tightly grasping the unfathomable corpse halt before you. A masked face regards you with enough emotion to detect beyond the rubber.

The person jolts in place, as though shocked, and swiftly accosts the twin set of pressurized tanks beside you. That’s where the cotton candy vapor originates. One valve is adjusted with affected coordination. A swamp of dusk-light fills your palpitating brain; and the world mercifully mellows.

 

***

 

A notebook lies abandoned in the reprobate toy-box filled with your personal items. One worn, pink pencil crayon rests inside the chrysalis of a metallic coil perched above the pages. You haven’t dared to compose a log-book -- or ‘diary,’ as Dave would refer to it, if he was conscious. That’s an archetype action befitting of your favorite films; it’s not a responsibility you’re prepared to corrupt in this place.

After meeting with Rose, Dave, and the trolls, then successfully breaching the alpha session, the communal asteroid unexpectedly met a wrongly birthed planet. Rose couldn’t foretell of such an event because the world itself was never meant to exist. It’s a negative creation -- the perverse substratum of an existing land. You initially wondered whose ectobiological relative unwittingly spawned it, but soon surrendered such musings to surreal despair.

In this sector of the planet, you’re alone with Dave. Rose, Karkat -- the other trolls -- all absent. With any luck, they’ve located each other and are searching for your minimal envoy. A minuscule portion of food is maintained under your singular discretion, and with profound fortune both bleak and shining, you managed to become isolated in a medical ward -- of sorts.

The rubber gown you wear is doused in Dave’s blood. It’s a mess of sloppy, candied hues. Gummy black, slick carmine. You cannot tolerate it any longer, and in a fit of frustrated keening, throw it from your moist body to the ground. Sweat drizzles down your brow and mixes with tears to form a scorching, saline nightmare. You shiver, as it’s very cold without a suit. If you’re careful, you might avoid another clandestine visit from the mud-man. 

It’s a monster you cannot simply extract and burn. He spurts up from the immense porcelain tub as a pus-heap of hemorrhaging filth; but when you dare observe him from an appropriate angle, it’s obvious he has a human face. The unnaturally wide grin -- a ghoulish frame for a mouth stuffed with squarish, blunt teeth -- distinctly resembles that of the squirming infant you murdered.

An unpleasant tremor manipulates your heart. Was killing the monster inside Dave really the only way to save his life? You could have extricated it without melting a hole in the back of its mealy skull. Then again, it tried to devour your best friend. Could you have simply plucked it from his guts without causing irreparable damage?

No.

There was no way to avoid killing it.

Still, you feel the full accountability for its young termination. A weighty guilt.

Before the luminous murmur of each convoluted lantern is snuffed, you hope to see Dave’s conscious form. Preferably before the mud-man arrives, as he inevitably will. You suspect this looming dusk is crucial. Tonight, the creature will kill you. After all, you’re responsible for its child’s death.

 

***

 

An argent glow pries tired eyelids apart with quick brutality. Your breath sticks to the inflamed flesh of your throat and gathers enough saliva to create a vile dust-paste. It forces aggressive coughs from severely congested lungs. Once the fit subsides, you rise to a seated position. A plush, cerulean jacket proficiently substitutes a blanket. 

It smells like John -- undoubtedly, it belongs to him. The garment is an indication of your best friend. He’s either currently nearby, or once was. You desperately hope for the former.

“Egbert?” Your voice is an atrocious clatter of rusty cutlery; all knives. 

The coat slides off your torso. A metal gurney creaks below. It’s stained with every color conceivable, but the most prominent shade is a glaring red. You gaze, with dreadful hesitance, downward. 

“Oh, fuck...”

There’s no way to rationalize the terror that rattles up your spine. All you can do is process each gurgling scream to bleak silence. 

A charred galaxy of abscessed tissue trembles with the first caress of your distressed fingertips. Stitches jut from agonized flesh, dotting a grotesque quilt-pattern from solar plexus to lower abdomen.

You’re uncertain as to whether it’s safe to stand, but blatant instinct instructs you to anyway. Of course it’s dangerous; but remaining immobile in stupefied dismay is worse.

A steel platter of surgical tools leers at you from the immediate left. Nestled cozily amid them is a wrinkled slip of paper -- a letter.

Each brief, diminutive step you take results in a blinding paroxysm of agony. You slide quivering fingers through the bladed cloister and retrieve the paper. Pink lettering is rubbed dim in sporadic places and splotches of roughened stationery crackle in your grasp, but the message is discernible.

‘dave, if you are reading this, it means i somehow didn’t kill you. since you’re not dead it makes sense to say i’m sorry about how the stitches turned out. i tried my best with them, but, well i’m just really sorry.

‘anyways, i don’t know if you remember or not, but i pulled this really nasty monster out of you. i think it would have definitely killed you otherwise, sort of like in alien, where it kind of just pops out of their chests? 

‘well, the thing is, this alien has a dad. and i think it’s going to finally eat me tonight, like it’s been threatening to do for the past...i dunno how long exactly. it’s already dark and you didn’t wake up in time for me to say goodbye because it’s going to get here in probably less than a minute.

‘i just wanted to write this note for that reason. to say goodbye. we had a pretty cool adventure together up to this point, and i’m going to miss you. i don’t even know if i’ll get a dream bubble because i feel like this monster is going to eat every part of me. like, psyche included. it’s that creepy, dave. 

‘so don’t leave this room. i don’t think it likes coming in here but it will if it figures out where you are. 

‘there’s more i wanted to write, but it’s kind of unnecessary now, so never-mind. i left food in the deep freeze in the corner. i know that once you’re better, you’ll find a way to escape or rose and jade will find you. 

‘so again, i’m sorry. and also, one last time, goodbye.’

\--- john.

Stunned tears spatter the letter as you read. If you had a pocket, you’d place it there, but what’s draped over your crotch is an abbreviated, smooth, russet medical gown. No storage. John’s coat, however, is likely equipped with a pocket. You’d captchalogue the note, but that seems dismissive. You don’t want to relinquish the -- your thoughts summon the word ‘memento.’ A swift shudder; then you notice an odd rivulet of hot fluid stream down your leg. At first, you believe the wound is bleeding, then you realize the liquid originates from your hand -- from the letter -- and it’s not red, but a chrome-lime. An acid brook.

Words begin to soak through the paper, corrupting John’s message with their own.

‘he’s alive. take two syringes and make haste. remember, the injections are not intended for the monster.’

Tittering glass vials. A flickering shadow in the dying light. You seize two needles from the radiant legion. The note is a pulpy, disintegrated clot of blinding green. You’re forced to release it as you lurch through abstruse corridors.

An anemic glow draws you toward a vast cavity. As you stumble wetly across frigid tile, a sinister noise swells. It’s like simmering soup -- or pancake batter on a griddle. Lurid and bubbly.

You see him; just a distinct tuft of shining black hair. It’s enough. The formerly apathetic lamp sparks with sudden ardor, and in the stark illumination, a gruesome beast is fringed.

Its body takes no constant shape but it’s rather like a human in the most unsettling way -- a human unmindfully forged from mercury. Cursed to remain undefined; melted. 

John is struggling beneath the creature, but its colossal volume renders the protest as disjointed and impotent spasms. Color, flesh, voice -- all are absorbed. Your best friend is dying.

It detects you and halts -- in that moment, you dive forward, obliterate your stitches, and plunge the syringe into John’s emaciated hip. The monster convulses and coils into a wormish abomination. It stares into your unveiled eyes, and smiles with vapid cruelty. An overabundance of teeth float in a sea of rancid pus. You can smell it; a wretched illness devised in humanoid mud.

A youthful voice -- cries of perplexed astonishment. You turn to John. The creature jealously accosts him, mouth widening to impossible dimensions. It resumes the binge, but in a clumsy manner. It cannot maintain the pace at which John expands.

You’re mesmerized by solution’s effect. Cascades of fat drape his fragmented clothing. He’s swelling to monumental proportions; characterized by immense, voluminous rolls of quaking flesh. An opulent belly settles in his lap before blanketing beautifully amorphous thighs.

He wears a justifiable expression of anxious wonder; it suits the unstable nature of his facial features. Each cheek is rounded, softened. They rest upon a wide duet of wobbling chins which obscure his neck and create a portrait of youthful indulgence.

The monster doesn’t retreat, but vainly struggles to absorb John’s flesh with swiftness equal to his expansion. This overzealous determination costs the mud-man its life as whichever mystery organ passes for a stomach stretches and splits; spilling vile, rancid guts to the cold ground. It convulses in brief, staccato agony then becomes still. 

You stumble toward Egbert, but cannot conquer the distance before falling into a grim and wrongful tangle of your own limbs. Where the stitches snapped, a rindle of blood wets your protruding liver. Slick fingers strive to press it back, unintentionally kneading the muscle wall with painful consequences. The blood is thick and gluey -- your hand slips, and the dazzling throb of squelching organs as they squeeze between the sinister maw weaves a lucid nightmare.

“Dave! Wait, wait, it’s gonna be fine, okay!? Just, stop, don’t -- just keep your eyes open, alright? Please, just for a bit, I can figure this out!”

It will be a heroic death. Permanent. There’s nothing you can do to prevent the shutters of your eyes from closing. 

So John does something to prevent it instead.

The second syringe -- the one that skittered away as you fell -- is impulsively stabbed into your outer thigh. Resulting discomfort, so sharp and lovely, distracts you from the spiteful ache of your gut; and your eyes remain focused.

 

***

 

Utilizing the second needle Dave brought was a compulsion. You inject its wickedly glittering contents into your friend, as the pain will garner his attention for a deficient amount of time -- might as well pursue your decision in its entirety.

He begins to engorge; even before the tube is wholly emptied. What’s more remarkable, and a sublime relief, is how his body -- minutely at first -- regenerates. The guilty crevasse you hacked into his torso envelopes errant bits of internal organ as it slowly mends into a well-healed, abstract scar. Once restored, his body proceeds to fatten. 

Velvety flesh distends to prepare for the flood of gelatinous surplus. Elephantine rolls of flesh curve around his frame, forcing him into a partially upright position. He is dazed -- awareness stolen from proximity to death and an astonishing growth. Bovine canvases of fat drape from his arms with evidently ponderous mass. The surreal, oceanic span of his belly and thighs -- nearly merged in rotundity -- finally cease expanding. You watch his face, accentuated with a plush abundance of chins, relax as his eyes close -- this time in rest, not death.

You’re unsure of what to say, so you remain silent, watchful. Movement is heavily labored at best, and you suspect it would be the same for him; yet you cannot permit this location. It’s tainted with the dead mud-man’s steady putrefaction and the lingering memory of your own threatened life. You stagger to your feet and plod heavily toward the desolate corridor. With each step, ripples echo through your bulging figure, sending your backside into a gentle, pendulous motion. 

Upon observing it, you realize dragging Dave through the lengthy hallway is a vast improbability. You return to his side and grasp the widest, softest part of him to prevent causing further pain before using the weighty motion of your body to pull him. 

“If you wanted me to get up, you could have just said something, Egbert. Real smooth.” His voice is weary; a consequence of extensive illness and terror. You likely sound the same.

“Heh, yeah, sorry. I thought I could drag you back into the other room without waking you up.”

“I wasn’t really asleep. Just needed some time to recover. That was some seriously mind-blowing shit.”

His flippant vocabulary suggests a paradoxically dismissive attitude, but you posses an intimate comprehension of the current truth.

“Yeah. I think we should get out of here. If there’s more mud guys...well, I know they can’t absorb us at this size, but I’d rather not deal with it again.”

“Hey, come on, we’ll get out of here. We’re both alive. In your note, you said Rose and Jade would find us. I still think that’s possible -- you should too.”

The desperate note in your voice went undetected until Dave began to comfort you. Now you hear it. Each too-sharp key of failure.

“I’m --” your statement briefly dissolves into discordant, fearful laughter “-- okay. Just...really, really...tired.” 

Instead of traipsing back to the operation room, and collapsing to the floor, as anyone partaking in your level of exhaustion would do, you devolve into a mess of hoarse, raw sobs; face pressed into Dave’s warm chest with frightened urgency. A lovely dismay slices through the din of sadness and besieges you with what was absent from your goodbye-note to Dave.

Maybe now’s the time to be honest. 

“Thanks for letting me rub my gross face in your chest like this.”

His smirk is distant. “That’s what I’m here for. I’m the single most competent handkerchief this side of the freak show.”

“It kinda is a freak show. If I knew where we were, like, exactly, I could probably fly us outta here.”

“Likewise, but with time shenanigans.”

“Okay, so we’re both really big deals. Anyways, I don’t even want to try exploring now. I kinda want to sit in that room with all the needles, just in case.”

“Yeah, I get that. Are you ready to go now?”

He’s trying to be sensitive. You’re avoiding the confession.

“I think so. But I have to tell you something when we get there.”

“Does it concern the monster-spawn abortion? Because I’m pretty fucking curious about it.”

“Uh, no, but we can talk about that too.”

Dave nods and begins the arduous hike; he’s positioned ahead of you, maintaining the formation with silent assertion. 

Protecting you. 

The alpha-posturing would be irritating coupled with alternate circumstances; now, it’s reassuring. You can’t imagine a sensation comparable to being absorbed into the mud-man’s loathsome viscera. If Dave wants to shield you from a repeated experience, you’re grateful for it. However, since you’ve already inspired sufficient agony in your best friend, adopting the role of protector is your responsibility.

“Let me walk in front of you.”

“No.”

“Aw, come on Dave, don’t be an ass. Shuffle over.”

“There’s no point now. We’re almost there.”

“You’re not going to fit through the doorway unless I knock the sides down a bit anyways.”

“Oh shit, Egbert. Keep up with burns like that, and I’ll be a tender pork-roast in no time.”

You groan and trundle past him; he barely surrenders the space, so physical contact is unavoidable. A darkly pleasant thrill sparks through your body as your backside is crushed against his plush abdomen.

The door is less than a few feet away. As you near it, dimensions become problematic. You’re forced to turn sideways in order to comfortably breach the threshold. Dave quickly subjugates his budding laughter. After all, he’ll be prompted to assume a similar position.

Initially, you’re worried the room will have changed in a vital way. Paranoia whispers colorful images of a mud-man ambush, or stolen syringes. Once you’re inside, it’s evident nothing has changed since the moment you thought would be your last with Dave. You almost ask him where he stashed the note, but refrain. It’s no longer relevant.

“So, step into my sacred confessional, Egbert. What’s up?”

Anxiety beats a steady, skeletal rhythm inside you. At the time you wrote to him, you didn’t have the courage to admit your emotions even under the shadow of death. Can you do it now -- and live with the consequences of your hypocrisy? 

Yes.

You’re standing in close proximity to him -- well, heeding the size of your body. Two vast globes of shamefully soft flesh meld together as you battle the distance. It’s too late to turn back. Dave likely knows what you’re up to, even now, prior to the actual kiss. Your suspicion is confirmed when he leans forward. His lips are hot; thicker than you imagined they’d be when he was slender. Your face is likely all creamy curves to him as well. 

It feels like true comfort; acceptance. You’re vaguely bemused by the revulsion you’d feel kissing anyone else. It has to be him -- it’s always been him.

“I guess you want to hear about alien hell-babies now?”

“Nah, we’ve got plenty of time for that later.” 

His fingers, dextrous despite their obvious chubbiness, meander amid your billowing thighs. Logically, you should protest his eagerness, but this has not been a simple night; and you’ve held him in anticipation for years.

Constant bliss casts an idealistic illumination on the landscape. It’s how you preserve Dave’s sanity, in addition to your own, until Rose and Jade find you; as you knew they would.


End file.
